I light the candle. No one sees it but me . . . but it glows like a prayer. It flickers behind the glass, steady and silent. It doesn’t shout or plead. It doesn’t accuse. It simply shines. Not as decoration, but as declaration: “You are remembered. You are still wanted here.”

This small flame has watched birthdays pass by like shadows on the wall. It has stood in vigil through Christmases that came without cards, without phone calls, without even a photo of the newest baby — born over a year ago.

We live four hours away. But miles mean little when hearts drift further. No harsh words. No ruptured bond. Just . . . omission. And that quiet omission aches louder than anger ever could. 

Still, I light the candle. Still, I wait.

We often say there’s a God-shaped hole in every heart — an emptiness only He can fill. That’s true. But as mothers, we carry another hollow space. A child-shaped hole that aches when arms go empty. A longing not to possess or control — but to be invited back into the circle of their days. To be remembered in the details: a photo, a question, a porch light turned on.

Yesterday, as I whispered one more prayer, it hit me — God knows this kind of ache. He has felt the sting of our silence, the distance of His children, the pain of unreturned love. And He still pursues.

This, I realized, is not just maternal grief. It’s sacred participation.

No, my suffering is not loud. But I have known what it is to be unseen by the ones I would give anything to hold. And in that quiet ache, I’ve seen Christ’s face clearer. Jesus told a story once — about a shepherd who noticed that one sheep had wandered off. Not many would notice. But He did. And He left the ninety-nine to go after that one.

That is the Shepherd I follow.

My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.
John 10:27 ESV

The One who walks dusty hills in search of the distant. The One who sees the flicker of a grandmother’s candle and knows exactly who it’s for. He knows my voice when I call out their names in prayer. He knows my heart when I whisper their faces into the dark. And somehow, in His perfect love, He is calling to them, too — even when I cannot.

When I hold tight to walking by faith and not by sight (2 Corinthians 5:7), it’s not a platitude. It’s my posture. My declaration. My, yet will I follow Him. I walk by faith that love matters, even when unseen. I walk by faith that God is working, even in the silence. I walk by faith that my unseen legacy still echoes in heaven.

Yes, sight tells me I’m forgotten. Sight counts the months of silence and measures the miles of distance. But faith? Faith sees the Shepherd’s hand at work in places I cannot reach. Faith trusts that the same God who calls me His own is tenderly calling them, too. 

If you’re holding space for someone who no longer includes you, you’re not alone. If your prayers echo in silence, if your love feels invisible, you are still seen. The Shepherd walks your path. He keeps record of your tears, and He holds the hearts you long to hold again.

So, light the candle. Speak their name in prayer. Take one quiet step of faith today. Because waiting, when done in love, becomes worship, and you are part of something eternal. Fashioned by His hands, guided by His compass true, sent to bear His glory in all we say and do.

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